


After the Silence

by Abracadebra



Category: Hogan's Heroes (TV 1965)
Genre: Armistice Day, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, World War I, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-06 02:34:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21219134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abracadebra/pseuds/Abracadebra
Summary: When they told him at the Academy that an officer's priority was to take care of soldiers, they didn't tell him about this part. A sequel to "Two Minutes of Silence," written for the Armistice Day Centennial challenge. Rated T for a couple of profanities.





	After the Silence

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on Fanfiction.net on November 10, 2018.

**Colonel Robert Hogan strolled across the compound at dusk with his usual vigor**. Kommandant Wilhelm Klink had been uncommonly gracious in allowing the prisoners to assemble for two minutes of silence to mark the 25th Anniversary of Armistice Day that morning, and Hogan had taken the time after dinner in the barracks to thank him personally.

Klink didn't have to accommodate his request to pay respects to the Allied Powers' fallen, and Hogan knew it; after all, November 11 wasn't a day the Germans were in the habit of commemorating. And yet he had allowed it, and when Hogan went to thank him, there was none of Klink's usual gloating; no garrulousness, no preening. Just the offer of a glass of schnapps, which Hogan gratefully accepted, and a soldierly toast to the sacrifices men make for their countries. A brief, cordial chat, and then Klink dismissed Hogan with a wan smile and an unmistakable mist in his eye.

As he approached Barracks 2, Hogan felt his energy suddenly dip. Taking care of his men was an officer's duty, and it generally came easily to him. As a cadet, he knew that one day he would be responsible for making sure his troops had adequate food, clothing, rest, shelter, weapons, and equipment to do their jobs. As a young officer, he had proved he could do this and more—he could lead through example and knit his men together.

Then came the war. Combat and prison had tested his abilities, but somehow, gradually, hard experience galvanized him in ways he couldn't have expected. Somehow, he had learned how to inspire others, and even he was a little in awe of that fact. Duty, honor, and country drove him as never before. His resolve to do the right thing by his men had always been strong, but never as powerful as it was now, as he led a small cadre of men through impossible dangers in the heart of Nazi Germany. These men were everything to him.

Hogan stopped a few feet from the barracks door and sighed. His biggest worry of the moment was on the other side of it: Corporal Peter Newkirk.

Hours had passed since the morning's assembly. When it broke up, the other men shared solemn words, handshakes, even bear hugs. LeBeau, whose own father had perished at Verdun, was visibly moved, and uplifted by the camaraderie. That one, Hogan knew, always had his feet planted firmly on the ground, with all 62 inches of him standing tall. Notwithstanding his legendary temper, LeBeau was down to earth and emotionally uncomplicated. He loved his friends, he loved women and good food, he loved France, and his beloved father was a hero.

Newkirk, on the other hand, had walked off alone, shrugging off even LeBeau's overtures. He stayed away for hours, turning up only after all prisoners were ordered in for the evening. The man was a stewpot of conflicting emotions, capable of careening from day to day between highs and lows. Hogan had some idea where it came from, because he knew what was in his dossier. He knew Newkirk had grown up poor and that he had quit attending school well before the legal leaving-age of 14. He knew his father had served in the World War and had not held a job for long since then, thanks to a taste for drink and repeated scrapes with the law. He knew that his mother was the backbone of a large family, which Peter had helped to support since he was old enough to pinch a milk bottle off a doorstep. He knew of Newkirk's own brushes with the law, his sketchy talents, and his colorful escapades.

And yet. There was so much he didn't understand. Who had nurtured Newkirk's bright intelligence? Had he done that all on his own? And how had he learned to cover up every uneasy moment with a quip, a joke, a trick, a sarcastic comment, or a glare? At his best, Newkirk was the team's social center of gravity, able to pull everyone together and help them forget their worries. At his worst, he was a powerful mood depressant.

Throughout this gray afternoon, his glare had been permanently affixed, and frankly it was bad for morale, Hogan mused. He was going to have to do something about it.

As Hogan stared at the barracks door, his mind was suddenly flooded by a lecture from his days at the Academy. "The commander should appear friendly to his soldiers, speak to them on the march, visit them while they are cooking, ask them if they are well cared for and alleviate their needs if they have any."

The words were those of ... Frederick the Great? Oh, man, it figured. Here he was, in the middle of Germany, channeling Prussian warrior-kings. He sighed and steeled himself for combat. Time to step inside and alleviate some needs.

**-HHHHH-**

Hogan breezed into the barracks with a broad smile.

"How's it going, fellas?" he greeted the men. The meal had been cleared and the small collection of pots, spoons, dishes, and mugs had been stored away neatly. At one end of the table sat LeBeau and Carter, carefully observing as Olsen and Kinchloe faced off in a game of chess. At the other end, head down and chain-smoking, sat Newkirk, brooding over a hand of solitaire.

Hogan was instantly shushed by the chess observers. He leaned over Olsen's shoulder. "Queen's Gambit Declined?"

"Symmetrical Defense, Sir," Kinch replied, moving a white pawn.

"I don't know what you guys are talking about, but I'm pretty sure I'm screwed," Olsen said with surprising cheer.

"Maybe you'll draw," Hogan said. "If you're lucky," he added, patting Olsen's head. He moved down to the end of the table and clapped Newkirk on the shoulder.

"Newkirk! Just the man I want to see! Finish up your game and come see me in my office. We need to go over some details for tomorrow."

Newkirk didn't look up. "Yes, Guv," he replied. "I'll be along in just a tic."

**-HHHHH-**

Hogan had barely settled at his desk with a scratch pad and pencil when he heard a rap at the door.

"Come," he said. Newkirk entered, hands in pockets, eyes down, looking ready for a scolding.

"Have a seat, have a seat," Hogan said happily.

Newkirk looked surprised as Hogan waved him to a seat on the bottom bunk and grabbed his stool, plunking it down across from Newkirk. Hogan crossed his arms and smiled.

"We're going to need a couple of Heer officers' uniforms for tomorrow for you and me. Got anything in stock?" Hogan asked.

"Of course," Newkirk replied. "Pick your poison. General? Oberst? Major?"

"Major for me; dealer's choice for you. Just don't try to outrank me," Hogan said.

"You've got it, Guv. Is that all?" Newkirk replied, starting to rise.

"No, stay. Sit down. It's going to be a late night tomorrow. You're going to need to get some rest. You doing OK?"

Newkirk let out a deep sigh and studied his hands. "Of course I am. You didn't really call me in here to talk about uniforms, did you, Sir?"

"Well, I did. And I didn't," Hogan replied. He paused. "Naturally, I noticed you're a bit out of sorts. Tough day," he said.

Newkirk looked down, suddenly taking an intense interest in removing a dried splotch of mud from the knee of his trousers.

"You're not in trouble," Hogan said gently. He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward, hands on his knees.

"Well, that's a relief," Newkirk said. "I bloody well ought to be."

Two complete sentences; that's something, Hogan thought. "Oh, really?" he said with a chuckle. "Why do you say that?"

"Well, I was pretty rotten to Carter. I know I have to apologize, but I just can't tonight, Sir."

"Tomorrow is fine, Newkirk," Hogan said. He fought the instinct to say more, allowing the silence to fill the space between them.

More than a minute passed. Finally, Newkirk looked at Hogan, shook his head, and cast his eyes back down.

"You can tell me what's on your mind," Hogan said. "It's just between us. Promise."

Newkirk bit his lip, and stared at his hands. Then he shook his head angrily. "I don't know what I'm thinking or feeling, Sir. I'm just all mixed up. I think about my old man and his bloody war and this camp and Andrew's bleeding farm family and I just want to …" Newkirk stopped his outburst and huffed out a long breath of air.

Hogan stood up. "Scoot over," he said, sitting down on the bunk next to Newkirk. "Tell me about your father."

"What?" Newkirk said, straightening up. "Why?"

"What do you know about him?" Hogan asked.

"Nothing good," Newkirk muttered, resuming his slouch. "He comes, he goes, he spawns the children, he drinks the wages, he beats the children. Tale as old as time."

"What does your mother think of him?" Hogan asked.

"Me mum? What the … why would you ask me that?" Newkirk replied, looking right at him..

Hogan just shrugged. "Just curious. Aren't you?" He put an arm around Newkirk. "Just a little?"

Newkirk leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands over his face. If he was trying to shrug off the Colonel's touch, it didn't work, because he felt a firm hand on his back.

"She puts up with him. He disappears and she still lets him come back," Newkirk said into his hands. "I mean, they have 10 bleeding kids together. She must like him a little bit," he said. He barked out a strangled laugh.

"And why do you think that is?" Hogan asked softly.

"She knew him before. She knew what he was, what he could be," Newkirk said, throwing his hands out. "She loved him. Oh, fecking hell. Don't make me…" It was too late. He let out a sob.

"It's hard not to think about him on a day like today, isn't it? It's hard not to think about what might have been, what good things you might have learned from him," Hogan said, pulling Newkirk toward him.

"You know what I learned from him? I don't need him to torture me. I can do it all by myself now," Newkirk said shakily, then sobbed again. "Carter and his nattering. 'My dad, my dad, my dad.' I'd have been better off if my old man had never come home," Newkirk choked out. Against his will, he buried his face in the Colonel's shoulder.

"You might be right," Hogan said eventually, patting his back. "You'll never know for sure." He paused and patted. "All that you can know is that he went through hell. And he was a better man than the one you knew." He offered his handkerchief.

"I bleedin' know that he went through hell. It doesn't help. I'll never understand him," Newkirk said, leaning into the shoulder and dabbing furiously at his eyes. He paused. "I never cry."

"Yeah, well, you should try it sometime," Hogan said. "It might help."

Newkirk managed a weak laugh. "All right, you caught me lying," he said. He straightened up. "It does help. What I mean to say is, I'm not a wreck. I'm not falling apart, Sir. Really I'm not. It's just been a bleeding awful day." He looked at Hogan. "Ah, cor, I'm sorry I got your shirt wet. Now neither of us can leave." He breathed shakily. "Well, that's what you get for reciting that bleeding poem before. You're lucky you weren't mopping up after me." He tried to smile.

"I seem to be having that effect on people today. Old Klink was shedding a tear when I left him before," Hogan said. "Did you realize he was watching our assembly from the steps of the Kommandantur? He was obviously pretty moved. It's one reason why I went to thank him."

"Now you're comparing me to Klink. How is that supposed to make me feel better?" Newkirk replied. After a pause, he said, "So that was one reason you went to him. What was the other reason?"

"He didn't have to allow us to assemble. The Germans didn't even surrender, you know," he said. "They just agreed to end the war. They were on their way to a resounding defeat and the whole nation was shattered, so not surrendering was the only thing that saved their pride. The Armistice isn't a day they commemorate. It's shameful to them.

"And… well, I don't know, it sounds ridiculous," Hogan continued, with rare hesitation in his voice. "I just thought he might need some company on a day like today."

"I reckon he did, Guv," Newkirk said. He inhaled and breathed out hard through pursed lips. "I did too. Just for a minute, though, right? Because I don't, you know…" He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands.

"Yeah, I know. You never do," Hogan said with a smile. "Don't worry about it. You're one of the strongest people I've ever met." He paused and laid his hand on the back of Newkirk's neck. "You feel better?" he asked. As Newkirk nodded, Hogan pulled him into a sideways hug, then patted him on the back, rose, and walked to the door. He beckoned to LeBeau, who left the chess game, huddled with the Colonel, and turned away with purpose.

While Newkirk focused on pulling himself together, Hogan reached into his locker and produced a glass and bottle of brandy, one that Newkirk had personally liberated from the Kommandant's cellars. Suddenly LeBeau was back, bearing a wash basin and pitcher, a wash cloth, and two mugs. He set them all down on the Colonel's table, and turned to Newkirk, who offered a bleary-eyed smile.

"Mon pote, welcome back. It looks like the storm has lifted," LeBeau said with a grin. "My god, will you wash up?" He soaked a wash cloth, wrung it out, and tossed it to Newkirk, dramatically tsk-tsking.

"Yeah, well, we had a rainy patch in here," Newkirk said gamely. "Blue skies in the forecast, though." He pressed the washcloth to his eyes, wiped his face, then tossed the rag back to LeBeau underhand, slapping him in the face with it. LeBeau peeled it off with dramatic irritation and hung it off the ledge of the table. He offered his friend a hand, pulled him to his feet, and draped an arm around his waist.

Colonel Hogan poured out three slugs of brandy. "To our fathers," he said, lifting a chipped mug. "May we honor their sacrifice and bury their pain."

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Newkirk refers to is "Dulce et Decorum Est," by Wilfred Owen, and I defy anyone to read it without feeling a little misty-eyed. Hogan recited it at the end of "Two Minutes of Silence." The "torture" line that Newkirk speaks is a lift from something Andre Agassi said about his own father.


End file.
